Child of a Rainless Year by Lindskold Jane

Author:Lindskold, Jane [Lindskold, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2005-04-27T22:00:00+00:00

Since the rain, light as it was, made further painting unlikely that day, I decided to keep my resolution to go into town. I hadn’t forgotten that strange, red-haired woman I had glimpsed down on the Plaza, and figured I’d go looking for her.

I’d thought a lot about what I’d seen, and had come to the conclusion that the woman had probably been sitting on a folding table set up near the gazebo. What had happened was that when I’d turned to talk to Domingo, someone had come along to claim the table. She’d probably hopped off her perch, picked up an end of the table, and gone. She might not even have realized the confusion she would create.

On the other hand, remembering the wildness I’d sensed about her, she may very well have known what she was doing, and had enjoyed giving the “gringa” a turn. However, I wouldn’t be comfortable until I took a look for myself.

Parking wasn’t that hard to find. I deliberately picked a spot across the Plaza from where I’d seen the woman, so I could retrace my steps. I did this, marvelling how little activity there was. I mean, I knew school was back in session and the tourists gone home, but surely this late in the afternoon there would be some activity.

I walked slowly, feeling a hitch in one calf from where I’d been balancing on the scaffold while painting. I bent to massage out a knot, and when I stood straight again and walked a few steps, I saw the platform.

Immediately, I dismissed my theory that what I’d seen had been a folding table. It was too big, too solid. It also had an extension of some sort that after a moment I recognized as a windmill in not the best condition.

When my gaze lowered from examining the windmill, I saw the woman. As before, she was seated on the platform base dressed in a colorful skirt, its tiers adorned with contrasting ribbons. Her off-the-shoulder blouse was snowy white and, as before, low enough to display an ample bosom. She was smoking a cigarette, and as I drew closer I saw it was hand-rolled. The odor was tobacco, though, not anything else.

Looking at the woman, I felt an odd mixture of jealousy and admiration. There was something so free and easy about her, a blatant sexuality that I myself had never been able to express—although certainly I’d felt the urges. I knew every man who saw her couldn’t help but be moved. Yet, though I envied her, it was admiration without resentment. I admired her as you would a beautiful flower: a California poppy or a particularly vibrant hibiscus.

As so many times in my life, I felt as if I’d been constructed from squares: awkward and graceless, female without being in the least feminine. This woman went beyond femininity and gave lie even to my claim of being female. I had the equipment, but I didn’t know how to tap into its power.

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